


The Prophet's Curse

by Lillian



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Mindfuck, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillian/pseuds/Lillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no such thing as professional distance for people like them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prophet's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and I'm making no money of their use.

Here we are again, lover.

You are not your lover, you think.

Oh, yes, we are. Always promise to put it in only a little way, and then open us wide and twitching. Ravish us. Can't even think straight.

You only do what's necessary and no more, you think. Always as gently as possible.

What does it matter if we use a shiny scalpel or a butcher's knife to cause the damage? We rummage and rummage around but never find anything of consequence because we're clever, and we're prepared, and we don't leave our secrets just lying around. So we find nothing but we keep doing it. How long has it been, since last time? Four months.

You feel no pleasure in this, you think.

We do, we do. We have always been the first in line for the double movie screening every Sunday, the gummy old man with a metal plate in his skull who swears he receives radio signals. We are spectators in other people's lives and actors only in ours, and we hoard our treasures. And when we are like this, we don't need to make an effort to dig them up, they just pour pour pour into us, bleed through. It's a two way valve, lover.

You are silent. You know you are right.

Like the moment we knew life, on that beach, that was sweet when we found the memory. A flash of lightning striking sand turns it into glass, and when the metaphorical lightning hit, we bet our pretty ass we saw it all. Life is an enfoldment, who said this, do we know?

Hypatia, you think.

We'll take our word for it. In any case, it's true, very true. An enfoldment of disillusionment, disappointment and pain. Not a revelation, but both revelation and growth. The bud started opening for us on that beach, its poisonous scent wafting through the air. We couldn't move our legs and our sister left us, and our friendcomradebeloved left us, our doppelganger. A German word that, fitting. We have always been very good at languages even though we've never really been good at anything but science.

He wanted us to reach the same conclusions without suffering the same anguish, ErikMagnetoErik did. We know this. That must make it worse for us, mustn't it? He thought we lacked understanding, he thought we were too naive to see how humans wanted to hurt us, to see how vulnerable we were. Suffering would always lead you to his conclusions, he was certain.

He was wrong. No two reactions are similar, you agree, despite yourself.

Take us, for example. You press and press and squeeze and a diamond is born and that's how we became who we are. We attach ourselves to others of our kind because war is inevitable, a war we shall win because we are stronger, and because we love when there's someone, anyone, to tell us what to do and to admire us. It's a brave new world, and we have another man bossing us around, and we like it. Just like with Sebastian. Isn't that a riot?

You don't think it's funny, you think.

Didn't it make us angry, what he took from us? He took and took and he gave only what didn't cost him any effort, and he looked down on us for our ideals, he resented us for the easy life he thought we had. He took one look of that big fancy house of ours and dismissed us, dismissed our opinions as easy as that, because he couldn't see the bruises and the broken limbs, he fell down the stairs you know what boys are like officer. Loneliness came from more than just being a mutant, in the moments when we closed our eyes and we knew how easy it would be to own the world. We could reach for it and cradle it like a pearl in our hand. It's a stage and all the people are our puppets. We could be a god, we could pull their strings with no effort whatsoever _and they wouldn't even suspect._

And there he was, ErikMagnetoErik, smug as you please, thinking he was persuading us that humans would only hurt us, when he only succeeded in persuading us _everyone_ would hurt us.

Erik had been through a lot, you think. It was only natural that he'd universalize his own experience.

We're not fooling anyone. Remember, here, now, we are one.

But we are always oh so understanding. Does our magnanimity hold up when we're alone in bed at night with our body feeling more like lead with every passing second, our cock lying limp and dead against our leg, while we knew that ErikMagnetoErik was probably fucking our sister at the same time? We have to admit there's a certain decadent symmetry to their sophisticated little arrangement. Do we know, in a way he's relieved this happened to us - this way we have less incentive to replace him. It's the height of vanity, to know he ruined us for anyone else. Even if he had to sever our nervous system to accomplish it.

You get more biting as the pain grows, you think, but you're almost finished.

We cling to serenity with both hands now. Our agony is delicious. Thank us for this feast.

Oh, but we shouldn't hurry on our account. Our honeycombed mind is but a small price to pay for these little chats, we do so enjoy them. We've even started talking like us now, do we notice?

Our sister wouldn't have left if we'd only expressed the slightest interest in fucking her, we're aware of this, we're sure. We wouldn't be truly accepting until we took on all comers, we suppose. She never did feel very sisterly towards us.

It doesn't matter, you try to dismiss, shut up, it doesn't matter, and we know we've hit another nerve. We're delighted.

Exemplary, exemplary. Want to lead through an example, but only succeed in making an example out of ourselves. Punish ourselves. Our sister doesn't suspect about that healer in Vermont, or the other one in Kiev, and neither does ErikMagnetoErik for that matter. We will keep the injury, keep lugging ourselves in that wheelchair as a reminder to not let go of detachment, to not trust too much. We paid for that lesson too dearly to forget it.

You are going now, you think. Goodbye, Emma.

Pain, pain, go away, come again some other day.

The rip of separation steals all capability of thought for a moment, for an eternity.

Then Emma's alone.

Until the next time.


End file.
